Hell's Belles
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: New Orleans, Mardi Gras. Elena and the Salvatores are looking to spend some time away from Mystic Falls. Meanwhile, the Winchesters are looking for sightings of the walking dead. Both groups crash the same elegant costume party, so it should really be no surprise when the mansion ends up surrounded by a horde of flesh eating zombies.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning**: Violence, gore, language, slight sensual imagery—all that you'd expect from a Salvatore-Winchester Zombie-Fest.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Vampire Diaries_ or _Supernatural_. Written for fun, not profit.  
**Author's Notes: **Setting for this story takes a little stretch of the imagination on the reader's part. For SPN, it's season 5, sometime before "Dark Side of the Moon" and after "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid"; for The Vampire Diaries, this is season 1, after Damon's discovered Katherine wasn't in the tomb (err, probably before "A Few Good Men"?) and sticks to canon ships. Despite that, these dates don't converse precisely (hard to do considering all the hiatus', CW), so let's just be content with saying it's mid February 2010 and that schools take weird holidays, much like my alum did, shall we?

Because it's me writing it, this story is all wonky—in other words, it's not chronological in all the scenes, so I put "NOW/THEN" dividers at the beginning of each part.

Story based on a prompt by**xgirl2222** given to me at **wishlist_fic**over at Live Journal. (Where I'm known as Twisted_Slinky.

Total Wordcount: about 15.5k. (This story will be four parts long.)

* * *

**Part 1 – Some Bad Juju**

* * *

**_NOW_**

* * *

The mansion _shook._

Eyes closed, breathing steady, pulse just slow enough that he could feel it throbbing in his clenched fingers: like this, if he stayed like this, he could pretend the sound beyond was coming from a party. It was the week of Mardi Gras, after all. In New Orleans. The French Quarter wasn't too far off, and the crowds, drunk on life and everything that came with it, were still mighty and roaring. At least, he hoped they were. There was always the possibility they were already dead, that this one little curse had spread into a plague over the whole celebrating city.

Hell, it was the Apocalypse. Anything could happen.

And, in the split second it took his brain to go from playing pretend to wishing for an end, he was back to reality. The comfortable numbness he'd been drowning in since Lucifer sprung his cage settled over Dean like a uniform. Time to clock in at work.

The sound wasn't coming from merrymakers gone wild. Wet groans, swallowed cries, vicious growls, and, mixed in with their voiceless chatter, the clatter of furniture being thrown aside, nails scraping at hard wood, flesh ripping off the bone: this was the noise of the dead. Or, better put, the undead.

The Winchesters had seen their fair share of zombies of all types, but this gathering of the dead was turning out to be the cherry on top of an already crappy sundae. Dean was not pleased. Not at all, and he wished he could work up the passion to take these monsters out the way he used to, without efficiency and _with_ style. But he knew he'd move quickly instead, forgetting the humanity on their wasted faces.

The horde of zombies pushed against the double doors leading into the round, windowless room from where they'd massed at the wide foyer. The grain of the wood popped and the length of the boards whined, wanting to buckle. Dean only bent his knees further, pushing with all of his strength to keep the entryway closed.

"Really good doors," he commented, through his teeth. _See_, he told the world, he could still fake it when he wanted to. _Screw Famine, screw 'em all._ "Nice. Solid."

The poor sap stuck beside him chuckled. "They don't make them like they used to," he replied, and he didn't sound half so strained when he spoke.

Dean shot him a look, but he couldn't complain that the guy wasn't working hard enough. Frankly, Dean was still amazed the doors were staying shut by force alone. _Where's that barricade I was promised? _Screw barricades, too, because apparently the dude in the nice black suit was stronger than he looked. Dean figured he could hold the entry closed by will alone.

"Damon, right?"

The party guest, one of the few who hadn't run screaming, smirked at the hunter, as if chiding him for his timing. Dean wasn't the type to notice the color of another man's eyes (unless they were black, red, or yellow), but Damon's were so electric blue, Dean half-expected them to be lighting a cross above a tacky Vegas chapel. And, that was without the now-abandoned black leather mask over his face, making the irises stand out like neon bulbs. The brow above one of those mischievous eyes was raised in question.

"Dean, right?" he mocked, right back. Then he snorted, amused. "You picked a _swell_ party to crash, Dean."

A zombie's groan grew louder on the other side, as if in answer. Dean lost his footing a minute, then caught it again, letting out a breathy chuckle.

"Right back at you, man."

'Cause, sure, one cocky rich dude blended in with the next, but this guy, Damon, his group, had stood out at the party—even before the shit went down—like they weren't sure what they were doing there. Like they'd been forced inside, dressed in costume against their will. Like Sam had looked, and Dean had felt.

Dean ventured a glance out at the room, ignoring the streaks of blood across the floor, where bodies had been dragged away, the spray of gray gore across the decorative tables where a hit had went home. It was empty of life; shattered glasses, toppled appetizer platters, and forgotten masks the lone reminders of the masquerade. The rounded walls of the room were painted an olive green and even higher where the already high ceiling arched up to a hanging chandelier and allowed for the curving staircase leading to the second floor. Display cases, mahogany with glass fronts, stood to either side of the main doors, framing the closed exits left and right leading to the dining hall and the—_what had Sam called the sitting room_?—the _parlor_. Friggin' rich people.

Dean could give a shit about the "overall aesthetic appeal" of the architecture, though. He was more concerned with what was in the remaining, unbroken display cases. And on who _wasn't_ running down the stairs to help them.

"Where the hell's your brother?" Dean finally snapped.

"Well, since no one here has ever seen a horror movie, _ever_, I'm guessing he's _upstairs,_ where the guests ran. Still trying to save the innocents with your brother, I'd imagine." Damon narrowed his gaze. "Or was that your boyfriend?"

"Ha, frickin', ha," Dean bit. His trick shoulder was throbbing with the strain, but he held it back his grimace, trying for levity. "Older or younger?"

"Younger."

"Same here."

"I feel very close to you right now." Damon rolled the back of his head against the door, as if he were simply lounging against it instead of holding back superhuman evil, and something about the movement left the sarcasm dripping all that much thicker. He tapped the knuckles of his free hand against the wood. "Think you can hold this on your own? I'm just _dying_ to check out that weapons display. Barely had a chance to look at the sword collection before the _stinks_ arrived."

At Dean's are-you-fucking-kidding-me expression, Damon's smirk returned. "I'm joking, of course," he amended, with a miniscule headshake, though it was absent of any sincerity. "Jesus, all the bones lying around and not a one of them is funny." He rolled his eyes.

Dean snorted then nodded at the door. Zombies were trying to tear the flesh from their bones—was their really a better time to share History Channel factoids? "There's an 1840 Calvary Saber in the display to the right. Mint. But, it's not as impressive as the rest of the collection."

"Huh." Damon cocked his head, considering it. "The 1840 was based on the French saber. Far more useful than an 1833 dragoon, I suppose—that model was more likely to break your wrist than aid you in close combat."

"Want dibs?"

"Well, you saw it first. I insist."

The set of doors to the left rattled against the antique chairs holding them in place. The horde, it appeared, had broken through the other entry to the parlor.

The two men shared a glance, and for a moment, Dean wondered how another individual could look as numb as he felt. He shrugged it off. If blue-eyes made it through the night, suspicion could wait until morning. There was other shit to kill until then.

"You know, when it comes down to it," Dean noted, "I prefer firepower over elegance."

The chair's legs snapped and the undead flooded the display room.

* * *

** THEN**

* * *

_**Two Days Earlier**_

Elena pulled Jenna's car into the Salvatores' drive, sat back in her seat, and simply breathed. Still, her body refused to unwind completely, which, of course, was the reason for her visit in the first place. It wasn't fair, what she was doing. She was completely aware of how not-fair ditching the world was, especially for her family, her friends. But, God, another minute with everything piling higher…

The tap on her door stirred her from the moment. Stefan was standing there, staring at her through the driver's side window as if he wasn't quite sure of what to make of her appearance. She rolled the window down and forced a teasing smile onto her face.

"Fancy meeting you here."

"Is there a reason we're not going into the house?" he asked, trying to grin back. The expression was too strained to succeed. Elena could tell he was worried by her refusal to leave the car, but she only shrugged in reply.

"You got my message," she said, noticing the duffel bag swung over his shoulder.

"Yes. I did, Elena." His heavy brow wrinkled in concern. "You asked me to pack an overnight bag and be ready to leave. Am I supposed to know what's going on right now? Is something wrong?"

Elena shook her head. "Nope and nope," she chirped. "Hop in."

He slowly walked around to the passenger's side and hesitated as the door before he tossed his bag in the back. "Because you'd tell me if there was something wrong?" he asked as he slid inside.

Elena shut her eyes but couldn't manage to shut out the world. She opened them again with a sigh and turned to face him. "Everything is wrong. And everything is not wrong, even though it should definitely be wrong… I realize that makes absolutely no sense. Which is my point, actually. I can't think straight here. Not right now. Not right here. I just want to get some fresh air."

Stefan stared at her blankly.

"Fresh air from somewhere other than Mystic Falls," she elaborated. She made a face. "Bet you didn't know that I can be crazy spontaneous—I'm sure that's unusual behavior for a girl who's dating a vampire and is best friends with a witch who may or may not hate her right now… But I can be. And, this is me—"

"Being crazy spontaneous? Outside of Mystic Falls?" Stefan filled in. "Because you want fresh air so you can think? Let me see if I can summarize—you want to go on vacation."

Elena gave one solid nod. "Winter Break is this week. We're off school for the weekend and the next two work days, which means we have a four day weekend. I'd just like to spend one night somewhere else,and this seems like the perfect time to do so."

"Didn't we just have a Winter Break?" Stefan frowned. "I don't understand modern school holidays."

Elena patted his thigh. "Don't over-think it. So, I haven't decided where we're going yet, but I told Jenna I'd call her when we got there. She thinks we're camping with a group from school."

"In February?"

"Camping, glamping, whatever. RVs, cabins, fireplaces. Jenna went for it, so just go with me on this."

Stefan opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the sound of the back door opening. Elena watched as Damon jumped in, a bag in hand, a tight smile on his face.

"Oh_, Stefan_, here," Damon said, by way of greeting, "was just about to protest the idea of you lying to your adorably oblivious guardian, then, mid-way through his argument, realize that he himself is a walking lie. He was going to conclude the attempt at maturity by falling into a manly brood." He winked. "Hel_-lo_, Elena. I packed snacks."

Elena caught her jaw dropping and closed her mouth. "Damon, get out of my car!"

"It's not your car," Damon corrected, looking pleased with himself. "It's Jenna's car. You wrecked yours because you have that nasty habit of slamming into people—another reason you shouldn't be driving. And, speaking of the irresponsible, Jenna would probably prefer you have chaperones on your little trip—would you like me to give her a call and make sure?"

"Damon." Stefan's voice was dangerously low. "Get out of the car. _Now_."

But Damon only leaned back, shimmying into the seat to relax. "Oh, come on, brother. A family roadtrip would be fun right now. Get my mind off of terrible, awful things like the love of my life not wanting me to find her—because, you _care_ about my emotional well-being _that_ much." He gifted her with a mocking pout for effect before getting back on point. "Plus, do you really trust me to behave with the two of you gone? Fox. Hen-house. Am I painting a picture for you?"

Elena shifted in her seat, facing the dash, then cocked her head, sharing a long side-ways glance with Stefan. She sighed. "Something tells me I'm not so much escaping the crazy of Mystic Falls, as taking it on a field trip."

She could feel Damon's wolfish grin. "Oh, by the way, I know exactly where we should go on this trip of yours, Elena."

* * *

"New Orleans it is," Dean announced, not nearly so pleased as Sam would expect, as he pocketed his cell phone and propped himself against the side of the Impala. "Bodies missing from graves. Animals mauled. Sightings of the deceased not acting so deceased. The usual signs of the dead refusing to stay down, or at least, that was the word from the hunter who went to check it out, a guy Bobby knew as Mal Hamilton."

"And Mal hasn't checked in?" Sam guessed. He finished pumping the gas and put the cap back in place, circling the car. The cool winter breeze hit him, and he crossed his arms over his chest, staring at his brother across the glossy black of the car. "And we're checking it out because…?" He watched Dean's brow raise, insisting he go on. "…Because we just finished one case of zombies, and this might be related to the Horseman Death, too?"

"Bingo."

Sam sighed. "I really don't like zombies."

"Yeah." Dean gave a one-shouldered what-can-you-do shrug. "But, on the plus side, Mardi Gras is coming up next week, so there'll be tons of parties going on this weekend." He glanced up, frowning. "That's not a plus, is it?" At Sam's groan, he groaned back. "Didn't think so. God, I never thought I'd hate the idea of boozed up sorority chicks."

"How do we pick up on this Hamilton guy's trail?"

Dean's gaze narrowed in on the journal laying on his backseat. It had been a while since he'd really needed it, but… "There was a bokor in 'Orleans Dad saw once, back when he was working that case when we were teens. Remember the one? I think Dad said the priest was pretty used to getting hunters as customers, so we might check there first. See what the word is about town. If anyone knows about any damned zombies, it'll be a bokor."

"Can we really trust one, though? I mean, these guys are basically wanna-be sorcerers. They usually_ cause_ the zombie problems."

Dean snorted. "Hell no we can't trust him, but we're there for info, not for making friendship bracelets. Oh, which reminds me, Sammy…"

Sam frowned. "I know you're dying to say it, Dean. I saw it on your face the moment you mentioned New Orleans. So go ahead. Get it out of your system."

Dean smiled, accepting the invitation. "You mind earning me some beads while we're down there? I know how you love taking your shirt off at parades. Wasn't even Mardi Gras then…"

"It was one time, Dean! One damn time for that mambo priestess's spirit summons. And you're the one who gave a minor peppered rum." He disappeared into the car, slamming the door behind him and leaving his big brother smiling in the cold. A muffled, "_Jerk_," sounded from inside.

"Yeah. I've missed bitch-face." Dean sighed, wistfully. "Here we come, Louisiana."


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning**: Violence, gore, language, slight sensual imagery—all that you'd expect from a Salvatore-Winchester Zombie-Fest.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Vampire Diaries_ or _Supernatural_. Written for fun, not profit.  
**Author's Notes: **Setting for SPN is season 5, sometime before "Dark Side of the Moon" and after "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid"; for The Vampire Diaries, this is season 1, after Damon's discovered Katherine wasn't in the tomb (err, probably before "A Few Good Men"?) and sticks to canon ships. Despite that, these dates don't converse precisely (hard to do considering all the hiatus', CW), so let's just be content with saying it's mid February 2010 and that schools take weird holidays, much like my alum did, shall we?

Because it's me writing it, this story is all wonky—in other words, it's not chronological in all the scenes, so I put "NOW/THEN" dividers at the beginning of each part.

Story based on a prompt by**xgirl2222** given to me at **wishlist_fic**over at Live Journal. (Where I'm known as Twisted_Slinky.

Total Wordcount: about 15.5k. (This story will be four parts long.)

* * *

**Part 2 – Carnival Season**

* * *

** _ NOW_**

* * *

The zombie was fresher than some of the others, but plenty past his expiration date. Whatever magic left him roaming the earth didn't do much to keep him preserved. Evidence of his earlier meal, a line of crimson, ran down his purple, swollen face, past chewed lips and the split, oozing skin of his double chin. But the eyes, those were still intact, foggy as the lenses appeared, and Dean took a moment to consider what kind of sicko zombie summoner took the time to repair those. Probably the same kind of sicko zombie summoner who had led the hunters into this trap in the first place.

_Fuckin' bokor._ _'Serves the loa with both hands' my ass. Total friggin' lefty—_Dean narrowed the gaze on that one pathetic specimen in front of him, ignoring the next four to fall through the now open doors to the parlor, and focused his rage at that pot-bellied dead guy, picturing the sorcerer's face over his. Not that he could do much with that rage, what with holding back the doors keeping him busy, but that didn't stop his palm from itching for the handgun tucked at the back of his pants.

Dead-guy seemed to realize Dean's predicament and lunged forward in a mad rush to claim the fresh meat.

The zombie's skull shattered, raining gray matter over Dean's polished dress shoes. Dean only barely managed to hide his momentary surprise, pretending that, _yeah, sure_, he'd noticed his brother standing behind the dead newcomers with an antique rifle raised to his shoulder, and _no way_ he had thought, for a split second, that he'd blown the guy's head off with the power of positive thinking alone. _Nope, hadn't happened_.

Dean shot Sam a shit-eating grin, and quickly scanned his brother's form. No blood, no limping, all limbs accounted for. The monk-like white robe he'd been wearing earlier was gone though, leaving him in the black dress slacks and white button-up he'd had on beneath. "What took you so long? You raid the gun cabinet while you were up there?"

Sam must have heard him over the roar of the other four zombies, because he rolled his eyes. "Yes, actually," he replied, before setting his sights on something past the doors and firing another thunderous round. "It was rather lacking, considering the museum Belle has down here."

Dean's face fell when the door at his back buckled against the hinges, reminding him that he couldn't let go, couldn't be his brother's back-up, without opening the floodgates. But, he sucked in a breath of relief when Damon's brother leaped down the last few steps, swinging a four-foot wooden beam. It hit a zombie, one of the invited party-goers still in their lobster costume, with enough force to shatter the plaster molding at the weapon's tip. The white suit hanging from the young man's lanky body wasn't looking quite so white anymore.

Stefan swung the beam backward, shattering the display cabinet and giving Sam a curt nod of thanks for paving the way. Dean watched his brother lower the gun, reach out for the same Calvary Saber that Damon had been drooling over, and bring it down on the fallen zombie. _Never leave the job unfinished_, Dean urged, watching the fight continue.

"Get the doors already!" Damon snapped.

Stefan and Sam pushed the next three zombies back past the open doors, then slammed them shut. The display cabinet must have been lighter than it appeared, because Stefan all but slid it in front of the doorway on his own before bringing the wooden beam to his brother.

"We send you after one little board," Damon chided, before snatching it up and leveraging it under the handles, at the crack between the double doors. He stepped back, checking that it would hold. When it did, Dean pushed off of the door, the muscles in his back screaming in thanks.

"I wouldn't want to leave you waiting," Stefan replied, without bite. "After all, keeping innocent people safe comes second to insuring you don't grow bored."

"Where'd you find it?" Dean raised a brow when he got a better look at their makeshift barricade. The support beam was solid and square cut on one end, where the decorative molding had broken away, but splintered on the side against the door handles. "Looks like you ripped it out of the damn wall or something."

In reply, Stefan glanced over his shoulder at Sam. Sam didn't meet his brother's eye when he shrugged, and if that wasn't more suspicious than the beam's sudden appearance, Dean didn't know what was. _Morning_, he reminded himself. _Deal with the zombies first, the possibly supernatural brothers with super-strength later._

Sam brushed off whatever that shared glance meant, and cleared his throat. "We got the upstairs secure, and the guests are locked up tight. Which is both good news and bad news."

Dean frowned. "Since there's nowhere for the evil undead to go but up." He shot Damon and Stefan a look. "You guys want to join them?"

Damon's eyes widened dramatically. "And let you two have all the fun?"

Stefan elbowed his brother. "We'll stay."

"All of us."

Dean nearly got whiplash following the third voice to the staircase, where a pretty girl in a long green gown was standing with a strange, gun-hilt shaped club in her hands. Dean was pretty sure he remembered the club from the displays in one of the other rooms, a Native American gunstock war club with a diamond-shaped sliver of metal sticking out of its blunt, heavy head—_the better to smash brains in, m'dear_. And Sam said he never paid attention to anything educational. Dean grimaced—and of course, he knew he remembered seeing the girl earlier, too.

Hard to forget the Baron's dance partner.

"Elena!" Stefan's face fell when he noticed her.

Damon shot his brother a hot glare, and Dean was suddenly lost as to who was more upset over her appearance. Which one of these guys was dating her anyway?

"Good job getting her to safety, brother," Damon hissed.

Stefan ignored him. "You'll be safer with the others," he said, eyes still glued to the girl.

"I'm not going to hide when I can help." Elena shook her head. "And I'm safest with you. I always will be."

The silence that followed implied there were more behind those words than a simple need to help. Stefan's face lightened slightly, his expression shifting from annoyance to resolve.

Damon rolled his eyes. "Stefan. Next time, do us all a favor and just tie her up."

Sam shook his head, muttering under his breath, "Told him she wouldn't stay put. He didn't listen."

"She never stays put," Damon agreed.

Dean waved a hand between the other set of brothers, glancing over his shoulder at Elena. "The more the merrier, sweetheart," Dean said, not meaning a single word, then turned his attention back to the doors. "Now, these aren't going to hold long. Can we get back on to the whole 'dead things trying to eat us' problem, or are you guys too busy having a _moment_?"

"Well, since you've brought it up, Dean…" Damon turned on his heel to face the hunter, somehow managing to loom over the man, despite the fact that they were nearly the same height. "Do you have a grand plan for getting us out of here? One that preferably doesn't involve the flamethrower display you've been eyeing all night."

Dean matched his smirk. "I thought you said you wanted to have some fun, dude."

Sam grabbed his brother by the arm, pulling him away from the small group. "Excuse us," he hissed, then cornered Dean. "We can make a stand here, Dean, but that's a hell of a lot of zombies. I say we call for back-up—you never know, Cas or Bobby might be able to help…"

"Check your phone," Dean interrupted, looking bored.

Sam pulled the cell free, gave it a glimpse, and grew a fresh frown. "What the hell?"

"Yeah, apparently, that old black magic can block a signal, too. I hate when the bad guys are up-to-date on their tech knowledge. We're going to have to get out of this on our own."

"Speaking of bad guys… This doesn't seem to be Horseman related. I mean, I noticed Stefan and Damon were wearing funky rings, but I'm pretty sure they're clueless, Revelations-wise. And these zombies are definitely a little different from the last ones we ran into."

"Dude, leave it to you to notice another man's jewels."

"Dean. On topic, please." Sam let that hang, giving the trio of curious listeners across the room an apologetic glance before lowering his voice. "I know what Mr. Belle said, but are we really sure it's _just_ a demon? What if it's a loa pretending to be a demon instead of the other way around? We try to go after it the wrong way and—"

"Looks like a demon, smells like a demon, acts like a dick." Dean shrugged, swiping off a drop of blood on the tip of his nose. "Yeah, I'm going with demon. You're just going to have to face it, Sam. This is just one of those easy hunts."

* * *

** THEN**

* * *

**_Six Hours Earlier_**

The interior had a familiar Southern charm about it. The hotel suite's main room was wide and richly decorated in burgundy and white and shades of gold, but the lamps were left cold, just the light from the setting winter sun shining in past the drawn shades. Soon, it too would be gone, and the room would be completely darkened, but, despite the dim light, Stefan could see his every feature in the standing mirror. He stood in place, pretending to adjust the button of his sleeve as he waited patiently for the front door to the hotel room to open.

Damon didn't sneak. He simply strode in, humming a choppy tune he had no doubt heard during his "walk."

Stefan shot his brother's spotless black suit a look before glimpsing down at his own white pants and jacket, stark against the red silk shirt beneath. Then he glowered at the mask box beside him before lifting it. Damon had brought them their costumes before he'd left, but Stefan hadn't dared look at them. He knew better than to expect something subtle from his brother.

The half-face inside was glossy, each white, crimson, and black diamond pattern shining against the strip of adhered gold molding separating them. The long, more hooked than bulbous, nose was familiar to him. Pulcinella.

"Damon," Stefan groaned.

Damon paused, brows raised innocently. "Problem?"

Stefan pulled the mask up, holding it over his face a moment before dropping it back down into the box with a flick of his wrist. "Are you serious?"

Damon smiled. "Oh, Stefan, always left looking like the clown. I'd say that was the only mask they had left, but then I'd just be lying." He seemed decidedly pleased with himself and plopped down into the single chair across from the sofa, crossing his ankle over his knee. "Where's the rest of your costume, brother? Or didn't the _fool's_ uniform fit?"

Stefan sat the mask back down into its box in answer. He hadn't bothered asking Damon what he was wearing to the party.

"I'm not putting a clown suit on, Damon. Even if you did pay for it." He dropped down onto the sofa, twisting to face the other vampire. "You've been gone for hours. Where were you?"

"Out for a snack—oh, don't give me that look. I didn't _kill_ anyone. And, I even picked up a few praline cookies for Elena. See, I _can_ behave." His devilish grin countered the statement. "Relax, Stefan. We're on vacation, remember? Time to enjoy ourselves."

"I don't buy it. Why are we really here, Damon?" Stefan leaned forward, lowering his voice. "We spent a day running from one tourist attraction to the next, you disappearing between each one, and, on top of that, you insist that we can't leave for home this morning, despite the fact that Elena's going to be late getting back to school. Then you suddenly appear after breakfast with invitations to an exclusive masquerade party? What's really going on here?"

Damon frowned. "Well, I _assumed_ you and Elena would enjoy dressing up and going to a nice party that wasn't related to the Founders of Mystic Falls. Frankly, I'm not having the best of months and could use the break—_and_ New Orleans is _ever so_ kind to vampires. People practically trip over themselves, begging to be bitten. It's a smorgasbord—you'd do well to partake in a balanced diet while we're here, little brother."

Stefan stiffened. "I'm not like you, Damon," he reminded. "I'm not willing to hurt people to have a good time."

"Yeah, sure. Preach on if it makes you feel better." Damon waved him off. "But if you do decide to nibble, just remember, what happens in _Nawlins_, stays in _Nawlins_."

"Whatever your _real_ reason is for bringing us here, Damon, you should hope it doesn't put Elena in danger."

Damon stared back, jaw tight in anger, but his voice was suppressed, teasing. "You know, Stefan, you really aren't _any_ fun. It's so very sad."

A door creaked softly and the two vampires stood to their feet without thought. Elena stepped out of the entryway to her room, her long green gown brushing the door as she moved. The half-mask Damon had chosen for her, painted purple and green and accented with golden stripes above her brow, was already pinned in place. The massive peacock fan at the right side, fixed with an assortment of fake gold coins, held back her cascading brown curls. A blush crept its way over her cheeks when she noticed the two men standing in attention.

"See," Damon breathed, taking her in with a sweep of his blue gaze, "I _am_ good at picking out costumes."

Stefan ignored him. "You look beautiful, Elena."

She smiled as if she'd just been handed the world. "Why thank you," she said, politely, and gave a short curtsy. She ditched the grace a moment later, and strode into the main room, excited. "Now when do I get to see yours?"

Stefan hesitated before holding the Pulcinella mask over his face. "I'm…Punch." At Elena's raised brow, he went on. "It's a famous clown character who..." He gave up. "Damon picked it out."

"Of course he did."

Damon was more than happy to oblige her. He quickly crossed the room and whipped out a stiff black leather mask, planting it over his head and tying it into place. His eyes smiled out from two wide, almond-shaped holes. The leather was delicately carved with swirling symbols and lines of purple and cut high over his cheekbones and across his nose. Two twisted horns sculpted from the leather spiraled out above his eyes and curved down to touch his ears.

"What do you think?"

Elena blinked. "You're what, the devil?"

"No, I'm Pan, of course."

"Who?"

Damon huffed. "I'm Pan. The god of the wild. Hung out with nymphs. Am I ringing any bells?"

Stefan bit his lip to hide his grin at Damon's disappointment. But, he had to let it free when Elena frowned. "Aren't you supposed to wear fur leggings or something?"

"I never wear _fur_," Damon snapped, as if disgusted with the pair of them. He shook his head. "No imagination, either of you… Let's go already."

"You really are good at choosing costumes," Stefan noted, easing a shawl over Elena's shoulders. "It's a talent."

"Shut up, brother."

* * *

"You're never picking out the costumes again," Dean announced, opening his car door for the second time in an attempt to free the black cape around his neck.

Sam sighed, a loud, whistling sound from beneath the mask he'd just slid into place. "Trust me, if there had been anything else available that would have worked for this…_venue_…I would have bought it."

"Yeah, well, you managed to burn through our credit card in that little shopping spree of yours, Francis—oh, and you look terrifying, by the way."

Dean groaned when he realized he needed to put the rest of his costume on. His own mask was decidedly more human than Sam's, with a wide, flared nose and an angular, mouthless jaw that jutted out far past his chin. Sam had called it a bauta or something and rattled on about historical Venetian disguises. _Whatever the hell_. He'd told his brother to get something that would blend in with the ritzy more-money-than-sense crowd and disguise their faces completely. Next time they had to infiltrate a masquerade, he was buying the guises.

He took in a final deep breath of New Orleans's nature perfume of dead moss, brine, and beer, and then tied the mask behind his head.

"And what's up with these stupid hats?"

"Trust me, I didn't want to be a plague doctor, but it's the only full costume that was long enough on me." Sam cocked his head, looking for sympathy, but the long, beaked mask only made his expression all the more comical, and Dean chuckled. "Put on your tricorne, jackass," Sam grumbled.

Dean figured Sam was talking about the triangular hat that looked like it belonged on a pirate. Which would have been a much cooler costume than the 18th century military uniform _disaster_ he was wearing beneath his flamboyant cape. It made him feel only slightly better when he looked up and saw Sam slapping down the almost flat, short-brimmed black hat that came with his costume—hell, if plague patients had to see _that_ coming near them, he was pretty certain they would have up and died from a stroke before the disease could finish them off.

"Terrifying_ and _ridiculous. You're like some creepy-ass bird-shifter," Dean finally amended. "You have the invitations in your… dress?"

"For a Mr. Benard Boudreaux and his 'dear friend' Mr. Fontenot." Sam snorted, the sound muffled in his beak. "Got 'em. Let's just hope neither of those guys can work their way out of those knots you tied. If they call the cops, it'll be fairly obvious where we took their stolen car—"

"Hey, it's not like this is my first kidnapping and impersonation, Sam." Dean paused, giving Heaven a bitter glance before stepping away from the borrowed Buick. "Jesus, we have weird lives. Let's just get in here, get the info from old man Belle, and get the hell back out again."

"I don't know what we're expecting to learn in here."

Dean shrugged at his brother's comment, his feet slapping against the gravel driveway. Above him, oaks shook out their Spanish moss beards, and the chill breeze was just enough to take the edge off the overbearing costume and stop him from complaining about working up a sweat. "The bokor said the undead troubles throughout the city were all centered here, with the wealthy Belle family. And, Mr. Belle is too damned elusive for us to get in touch with any other time. Let's just hope he's not already drunk off his ass by the time we grab him."

"And that he's not senile," Sam muttered.

"That too."

When Dean looked up, he came to a full stop beside Sam, staring up at the mansion in awe. They hadn't been to a place quite this… the words "friggin' huge" came to mind… since they'd broken in to Crowley's.

The driveway had been dark, twisting away from civilization to lead them to the estate property hidden by a line of greenery and iron fences. While they couldn't see much of the rest of the land, gardens circled around the side of the mansion as they approached, clay stone walks leading around to the front entry. Stark white, even by moonlight, the level was flush with the earth but forgotten behind the rise of the imposing steps leading to the main floor, where the porch wrapped around the central building, lined with massive columns and a short, ornamented fence. Windows climbed high before the roof jutted out, so tall and angled that Dean knew there had to be a final, smaller floor above as well, even if he could barely see where the vaulted lines of the roof tapered upward from this angle.

Hearing the trumping jazz that had followed them around the city like a rain cloud, Dean whistled in admiration. "Look who's putting all the other plantation manors to shame."

"And, it widens in the back, too. Into an L shape. You know what this means, right?" Sam hunched his shoulders in resignation. "If Belle tries to avoid us tonight…"

"He's hosting the party, Sam. He's gonna show. Don't worry so much. This is the easy part. Try to enjoy yourself, Dr. Plague. The world's not ending tonight."

Sam tilted his hat forward. "No. Not tonight," he assured himself and took a breath, standing taller as he slipped into his I-belong-here persona and pulled the invitations free from the pocket of his robes. "Let's do this."


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning**: Violence, gore, language, slight sensual imagery—all that you'd expect from a Salvatore-Winchester Zombie-Fest.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Vampire Diaries_ or _Supernatural_. Written for fun, not profit.  
**Author's Notes: **Setting for SPN is season 5, sometime before "Dark Side of the Moon" and after "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid"; for The Vampire Diaries, this is season 1, after Damon's discovered Katherine wasn't in the tomb (err, probably before "A Few Good Men"?) and sticks to canon ships.

* * *

**Part ****3 – A Fine Southern Belle**

* * *

** NOW**

* * *

"Not going to work," Damon _sing-songed_ at a near whisper.

Dean huffed but kept his own voice low. "What isn't going to work?"

"This _plan_ isn't going to work."

"You agreed to the plan, dick."

"Oh, I know. I'm just saying it's not going to _work_."

Dean glared at Damon. "Are you always this way? Seriously?"

Damon didn't reply, instead crouching further down beside the couch he was currently stationed behind and tilting his head at the door, as if to signal Dean forward. The hunter peaked around his own chair and shook his head before duplicating the _'no, you first'_ gesture.

While most of the undead crowd had moved back after a fresh piece of meat, the zombie now blocking their path, a bloated woman whose eating habits had crossed over into the next unlife with her, had lumbered into the parlor from the over-crowded foyer. And, she was going to find them in seconds, whether one of them moved forward or not. These zombies might have been the dumbed-down, and easier to _put down_, counterparts to the fleshy revenants the Winchesters had encountered over recent years, but they were highly motivated, if by hunger alone.

Dean had left the rifle with his brother in the display room, but he was suddenly regretting giving up the gun, even if firing meant the zombies would suddenly put all their focus into flooding this smaller room again instead of pounding on the center set of doors.

Damon sighed loudly, catching the corpse's attention, then stood up, drawing up the long body of the cavalry sword at his side. He crossed the room quickly, dispatching the zombie with a flick of his wrists. The woman's severed head thudded against the floor a few seconds before the rest of the body joined it.

Dean blinked at him, too close to the foyer entrance to dare speak at louder than a hiss, but he was pretty sure the other man could read the words on his mind: _'How the hell did you do that so well?' _Because, sure, Dean could have managed it that easily, but most civilians would have hacked at the body a few times before cutting the neck enough for the divine referee to call "severed!" Dean filed the move in his growing list of reasons why the Salvatores likely were not human and probably shouldn't be given sharp weapons.

Then, with a barely suppressed grunt, he pushed himself back up off the floor, his back protesting the heavy load strapped over his shoulders—_eighty friggin' pounds shouldn't be considered 'portable'_—held the muzzle of the weapon under one arm, and toed around the line of bodies the two of them had left since sneaking out of the display room. Damon had already moved to the window, quietly sliding up the wide glass panes.

"Ready for that fun we were talking about?" Damon asked.

Dean took a breath and carefully eased himself and the weapon out. A moment later, Damon joined him on the spacious porch. The stark white paint over the house was stained with smudges of grave dirt and stripes of bloody fingerprints where the dead had roamed around the mansion before finding their way inside.

Careful of the creaking boards beneath him, he side-stepped toward the front of the house, Damon walking beside him, as if on a leisurely stroll.

When they reached their destination, they came to a stop, eyes wide. "Wow. Belle had quite the family," Dean breathed, licking his lips nervously.

Damon's voice was at a whisper again, some of his cockiness slipping. "Something's keeping them from venturing out into the city."

"Yeah, it's called black magic," Dean replied. "The demon just wants this party crashed—destroying the French Quarter would probably be bad for his business."

Damon smirked at him. "You know, you're not as stupid as you look," he said, with some measure of sincerity.

Dean ignored the jibe and stared out at the front yard. The gardens and front steps had been overtaken by the dead, in all states of decay. Bones barely held together by sinew and dust managed to climb their way up, snapping dry jaws. Fresher bodies walked past the skeletons, looking as if they were stumbling home after a night of drinking. But, it wasn't the sight, but the smell that was overpowering.

Nothing really stunk like a dead human, and the faint hint of sulfur, the mark of a demon's powers at work, hung in the air, sending Dean's mind back to the time he spent down under. Forty years of this scent, as if the torture wasn't bad enough.

"Still liking your plan?" Damon asked, shaking him from the memory.

Dean took a breath, let it out again. "Nope. Let's get to work."

* * *

** THEN**

* * *

**_Three Hours Earlier_**

Colors took on life and danced in swaying, haunted movements to the belting, hollerin', grunting rendition of "I Wanna Know" from the band set up in the open doors to the porch, spilling their jazzy tunes out into the night. The other partiers moved around the dancers in the foyer, glittering and shining in their bright Mardi Gras costumes. The heavy masks and hats made them seem faceless, otherworldly, and their rushing movements, sharp laughter, and blended voices left Elena feeling disoriented.

She took a shallow breath, turning away from the crowd so quickly that she nearly fell into Damon's awaiting arms.

"My, my, you're all hands tonight," he commented, and she shook her head, keeping the smile off her face as she pulled away. The movement didn't work; he simply held her wrist, twisted around, and swung her to the beat of the music_—"I wanna know what you do when you go down there…Tell me, baby. Daddy ain't no square," _the vocalist sputtered_—_until she relented.

"You're incorrigible, you know that?"she said, trying to hold back her grin.

"Told you this would be a great party."

"You're right. Well done, Damon," she admitted, batting her lashes through her mask. "And, I _do_ feel like dancing…"

Which was her cue, and she slipped from under his arm and out of his grasp, ignoring whatever argument was on the tip of the vampire's tongue. Stefan cut through the crowd, holding her fresh drink out, but she simply handed it off to a grumbling Damon and moved in for her dance. Stefan chuckled, letting her lead him past a couple dressed as pair of Venetian cats wearing musical notes and away from his brother.

"Having a good time?" he asked, then glanced over his shoulder.

Elena followed his gaze. Damon had disappeared from view, no doubt off trying to convince the female population that they'd make great "nymphs" for his Pan costume—a tactic he'd already put to work once, no mind control necessary. At least, Elena hoped that's all he was up to, because Stefan's eyes had narrowed in on the double doors leading into the massive display room past the foyer. Elena recognized the intense expression on his face. Stefan was listening in on someone's conversation, or trying to... Elena really hoped none of it had to do with a guest passing out from blood loss.

"Damon was right. This is fun," she said, catching his attention once more. "What about you?"

"I'd be having a better time if I knew what Damon was planning. He's being too reasonable tonight." Stefan grimaced, obviously waging a mental war with himself over the observation. "But enough about him… What do you say we get a breath of fresh air, Ms. Gilbert?"

"Why, Mr. Salvatore, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get me alone." Elena chewed her bottom lip, enjoying the lust that lit his eyes.

The tune that had been playing cut off abruptly, and a new one began with a familiar trump.

Stefan raised a brow. "Hmm, 'I Put a Spell on You'—I suppose someone's a Screamin' Jay Hawkins' fan." But the piece of trivia must have struck him wrong because he frowned at something behind Elena.

She paused her lazy dance, turning to see why the foyer had suddenly stilled, despite the rowdy music playing. The space in front of the main entry had cleared to allow for a tall figure to enter the mansion. Elena spotted his black top hat first and followed it down to his handsome, dark-skinned face and bright white smile. A pair of round sunglasses, one side missing its black lens, sat on his wide nose, and he reached up, pulling them off and folding them away. He wore a lavish purple long coat and carried a slick baton in one hand. Something about the way he stepped into the room as if it belonged to him made his flashy costume seem less flamboyant and more debonair.

His deep, rich voice bounced off the fourteen foot ceilings. "Dance, children," he commanded, with a soft chuckle. "Dance, and drink, and eat…" His gaze stopped on Elena, and she felt herself blushing. "And make wild love, for your lives are short," he finished, and gave her a wink.

And as if a gong had been rung, the guest dispersed back to their places, laughing jovially and enjoying a fresh display of appetizers. Elena and Stefan shared a worried glance.

"Uh, are we the only ones who noticed that was a bit… strange?" Elena whispered.

But Stefan quietly stepped in front of her, blocking her from view. She stared over his shoulder, watching the newcomer approach them with an almost comical swagger to his step.

"Hello, boy," the man said, flashing his teeth again. This time, though, they looked less welcoming, and far more predatorial. "I didn't know leeches were coming to the party. Should make things a might bit interesting, though, shouldn't it?"

Elena's eyes widened at the implication.

"I'm sorry. I don't believe we've met," Stefan said.

"Don't you recognize me, do you? Must not be from around these parts then. All things dead and cold in 'Norlins has heard of the Baron before." He smirked. "But enough about me. What's that prize at your back? I've no room for the humble, boy—let me see what you've won tonight."

Stefan held his place, but Elena watched as the man flicked his wrist at the thin air in front of him and her boyfriend fell aside, hitting the floor hard, as if he'd tripped over nothing. Stefan stared up, fixed with panic, and Elena understood why—he couldn't move.

"Stefan!"

"Hope you don't mind if I steal your lady friend for a dance?" The Baron reached out, snatching Elena's hand and pulling her close. He rested his baton at her back, holding her in place against him. "My, my," he said, softly, "you're of an old blood line, aren't you? A soul tied to a soul, tied to a soul… Mighty powerful combination, you know. And, I do so like power, Elena. I like to _collect_ it. Of course, I always give a fair trade."

"Let. Me. _Go_."

The Baron laughed, a rumbling sound, like thunder. "After a dance, my dear," he promised. "Then we can get to the evening's _real_ entertainment. I think you'll quite enjoy it, considering the type of company you like to keep."

Elena felt her breath catch in her throat when she glowered up at him. It could have been the yellow light bouncing off the colorful costumes flitting about, but she could have sworn that, just for a moment, his eyes flashed to bright, crimson red.

"What are…Who are you?"

"How rude of me not to introduce myself." He leaned forward, his top hat casting an eerie shadow over his face. "Baron La Croix, at your service, m'dear."

* * *

"Crawfish _boulettes_, sir?"

Dean smiled beneath the mask, snatching up a handful of the offered appetizers before the server could take the tray to the refreshments table. He shoved a few of the small, fried meatballs under the pointed chin of his mask, avoiding Sam's glare. Sure, he could only see it though tiny round holes, but Dean knew it was there.

"Eat up, man—I'm not stopping for fourth meal," Dean said, mouth full.

Sam shook his head, his voice rushed and low. "We've been over this place twice, and we keep missing Belle. People are already starting to leave for the evening, and we're lucky we haven't run in to anyone who actually knows the real Mr. Boudreaux and Mr. Fontenot."

"Don't get your panties in a twist." Dean gave the room another sweep. The parlor was quieter than the rest of the house, lined with chairs and couples who'd wished to escape the epicenter of the loud music in favor of conversation. When he was sure no one was listening in, he cleared his throat. "The party's barely begun, alright? Belle's around here somewhere. I got groped by that old lady in the flapper costume just so she could tell me the guy's dressed as a king tonight. But, he's old as limestone, so he's probably taking a nap or something. He'll be back down here when—well, crap—_there!" _

Sam followed his gaze to the wide doorway leading into the center room, a round-walled display area for the Belle family's weapon collection. Sure enough, a withered looking elderly man was being helped down the staircase, already rambling on to a couple who were unfortunate enough to be standing at the closest case, admiring the grenades inside. White leggings stretched up his knobby legs to fat, colorful breeches and a matching tunic. A plastic crown hid the liver spots on his bald head. The brothers didn't need to see past the gentleman's half-mask over his face to know it had to be Henry Belle.

They moved as one toward the man, intercepting him before he could disappear into the crowd.

"Mr. Belle, that's a fine flamethrower you've got," Dean began, gently pulling him aside.

"Ah, yes, one of my recent purchases… A _Flammenwerfer_ _35. _WWII era, of course, the common German design for the one-man operated flamethrower. You know…" Belle's rich accent teetered out, and he looked up, his frown heavy and doubling his chin. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name, son."

Sam looked for witnesses before he helped his brother lead the man out of the display room and past the set of doors across from them, into the relative quiet of the dining hall.

"I…I don't believe we've met…" Belle sputtered.

"Listen, Henry." Dean pulled the mask down off his face, despite his brother's frenzied gesture for him to stop. "I think your weapon collection is great and all—hell, if I had your dough, I'd probably think about putting a few of those pieces behind glass myself. But, I'd really rather talk to you about your family."

Belle blinked up at him, confused. "M-my family?"

"I'm gonna level with you." Dean shook his head, as if amused by what was about to come out of his mouth. "Dude, we know you know that your family crypt is emptying out. Dead people are showing up around the city, and the local bokor seems to think you're at the center of the mess."

"Dead people? You're crazy, son." Belle took a step back, eyes narrowed in suspicion instead of confusion. "You weren't invited to this party, were you?" His nostrils flared in anger. "I won't stand for this kind of nonsense in my house! You'll get out now, or I'll… I'll…"

"Or you'll what?" Sam asked. "See, I don't think you'll do much of anything, Henry, because I recognize that expression on your face. It's guilt. Now, why don't you do us all a favor and tell us what you did, before things get out of hand."

"Henry, if any of these people get hurt. It's on you," Dean added.

"I didn't—" The old man's voice broke, and, with it, his will. "I'm not long for this world, you have to understand."

"Tell us," Sam snapped, grabbing hold of his bony shoulder.

Belle shrunk in on himself. "All this money, all this wealth, and I don't have a single soul to leave it to...not a single heir. Used to be a quarter of the city was related to the Belle family, by blood or marriage… But the cousins, the ones who still still have a place in society, have been dropping like flies, and I'm the last of a long line. I had a son once, but, when he left school he… We found out he was_ funny, _you know, fooling around with other boys. And, in_ public_, in front of my associates. So, of course, I disowned the ungrateful little queer... I couldn't have that kind of scandal connected to the Belle family name. I just always assumed my next wife would give me another child, but…" He shook his head, enraged by the mere thought. "But _nothing_. The doctors say I'm dying, and I have no _legacy_."

Dean blinked, confused. "Okay—I'm going to work past the part where that ignorant asshattery is fucked up as hell, and why it's ironic that you invited Mr. Boudreaux and Mr. Fontenot... Henry, the next words out of your mouth better not be 'so I made a deal.'"

Belle's eyes widened. "How did you know?"

Dean tossed his hat across the room, groaning in aggravation. "God damn it."

"Shit," Sam breathed, but kept himself on topic. "Henry, what were the terms?"

"I...I don't understand. Who are you people? Why do... Oh, God, you're with the Church, aren't you?" And, the old man shuddered at the mention, as if he'd somehow forgotten the possibility. "I should have known better than to trust that hoodoo heathen to keep his mouth shut..."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Henry, the terms? _Now_."

Belle shook his head. "I wanted a family _worthy_ of my legacy. A family worthy of the Belle family name. The Baron La Croix said he'd give me one, and all I had to do was throw him a grand party. One single ball for him, and he'd come and give me my reward. Said the entertainment paid for itself."

Dean cocked his head. "Hold on—this guy you made a deal with didn't ask for your soul?"

"Heavens no! Nothing like that. Just this party."

"Baron La Croix, as in the loa from..." Sam did a double take, his voice trailing off. He pulled down his own mask, staring at Dean before turning back to the old man. "Wait._ This_ party, Henry?"

Dean rubbed a hand across his face. "Why do I get the feeling this night is about to get a lot more bloody?"

"_Ah_, Henry…"

Sam and Dean shot to attention, but the guest who stepped through the doors didn't seem alarmed by the fact that the two men had the mansion's owner cornered. Instead the guy only tilted his head in curiosity, his smile tight and bitter beneath his black, horned mask.

"I've been looking _everywhere_ for you," he chided the old man.

"Do I know you?" Belle asked.

"No, you don't. Damon Salvatore, here. And, you're Henry Belle. Introductions complete. Now, an old friend of mine told me there were a few questions you'd be able to answer for me, about a young woman who stayed in this mansion with you a few decades ago."

Dean gestured between himself and Belle. "We're kind of in the middle of something here, _Damon_."

"And I _do_ so hate to interrupt," Damon said, sounding anything but apologetic, "but I've got urgent business with Henry here. So—_how can I put this?—_scurry on, party crashers."

Dean was about to go from zero to pissed when the old man teetered forward, into Sam's arm, as if he'd suddenly remembered he left the stove on.

"He's here—the Baron La Croix is _here_," he hissed. Then the fear dropped from his face, a giddy smile replacing it. "He's coming to give me what's mine! He's coming to give me my_ legacy_!"

Damon opened his mouth to comment, and closed it again, staring over his shoulder, his brow wrinkled in concentration. Dean and Sam watched the doorway, wondering what it was the other man had heard.

"That can't be good," Damon muttered, and disappeared back into the other room.

"Stay here," Dean growled at Belle before leading his brother into the display room. Damon was already out the center double doors, in the foyer. "So, when Henry said the Baron La Croix was here…?"

"Yeah, I think he was talking about the demon he made a deal with," Sam agreed.

"Did you bring the—"

"—I've got it," Sam picked up. He reached to his side, pulling up the flap of material over the waist of his robe and yanking Ruby's demon killing knife free from the makeshift sheath. "This is going to get messy in a hurry."

"No kidding."

But, Dean pushed past the other guests, jerking his cape free from around his neck and ditching it in the crowd. He wasn't sure what he was expecting to see, but the party-goers were simply enjoying themselves, as if unaware of the young man in a white suit laying on the floor as if he'd lost the ability to use his legs or… Dean raised a brow at the dick he'd met earlier, Damon, who was currently standing with his back against the wall by the doors, hands outstretched beside him, as if he were being held back with invisible restraints. He strained to lift his head off the wall, a pained grimace on his face.

It didn't take a hunter to see where the problem lay. Or, as it were, _danced_.

At the center of the foyer, a man in a top hat ground and shimmed his way around the standing, prone form of a dark haired girl in a long green gown. She seemed to sense the new eyes on her and turned her head, her gaze pleading for help as it ran over the guy in white and Damon's frozen forms.

The Baron La Croix ran the head of his baton against the side of her thigh in a suggestive show, chuckling against her neck at something she'd said, before he took a step back. "Ah, uninvited guests," he said, louder. He sounded disappointed. "It seems our dance is at its end, my dear Elena. Unless, you'd like to offer me a reason to stay? Something worth my time?"

At her glare, he shrugged, turning his attention back to the hunters.

Even over the band, his voice was clear. Sam took a step forward, knife hidden in his sleeve. The Baron gave him a long look before grinning. His eyes flashed to red. "Why, I do believe I know you two—not the famous Sam and Dean Winchester, surely? What an honor it is to have you _fine_ gentlemen at my masquerade."

The guests continued to move about, talking amongst themselves, as if they couldn't hear the exchange.

"Oh, it's really not," Dean assured. "What's with the outfit? Personifying voodoo characters—that's a new low for your kind, isn't it? Or is a _loa_ spirit an upgrade for a crossroads demon?"

The Baron's thick lips tightened into a line, but he didn't lash out at the hunters. Instead, he managed to force his mouth into a grin. "What can I say? I've been enjoying my role as the Baron for a long, long time, boys, and my _friends_ on the other side, helpin' me out, they don't seem to mind, either. People like the show, and I like not having to report back to a boss. Even got myself a few followers—you might have met one of them, a bokor by the name of Facilier?" He chuckled at their less than amused expressions. "Thought so. See? Fun times all around, gentlemen."

"A boss." Sam's cheek twitched, and he worked his way closer. "You mean like Crowley and the other crossroads demons? I wonder what he'd say about you getting souls on the side for all these years without following the rule book."

"Oh, I think the old boy has his own management problems right now, don't you? What, with Lucifer on the loose and all." Now the Baron let his anger show. "Children, I sincerely hope you enjoy the rest of my party. I'm afraid you won't make it to the next one."

Sam lunged forward with the knife but stabbed thin air instead of flesh. In the blink of an eye, the Baron had disappeared, leaving in his wake a chorus of screams from outside.

And, so it began.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning**: Violence, gore, language, slight sensual imagery—all that you'd expect from a Salvatore-Winchester Zombie-Fest.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Vampire Diaries_ or _Supernatural_. Written for fun, not profit.  
**Author's Notes: **This is the final part of Hell's Belles. Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoy it. Additional notes at the end.

* * *

**Part ****4 – Mask of the Purple Death**

* * *

_**NOW**_

* * *

Loud. Their breathing was loud, intrusive, as if it were trying to block out the moans of the dead from the foyer. Stefan could usually control his preternatural senses, ensure that the scent of fresh blood, the rhythm of a close heartbeat, didn't bring out the worst in him, but he was having a hard time keeping himself together at the moment. The beast inside him wanted to come out and play, rip a path through the decaying crowd past the doors and carry his girl out of the mess. But, that would mean leaving those people upstairs and hoping the two men they'd met could fend off the undead by themselves.

Surrendering would also mean letting his inner monster win this round. Unacceptable. So, instead, he concentrated on that loud breathing coming from the two humans still in the room.

Elena, as if sensing his rattled state, smoothed her hands down his shoulders to comfort him. Despite the sympathetic squint at her smiling eyes, he knew she was just as off balanced by the plan of action they'd agreed on, and with good reason; out of the five of them, she was the one most as risk… Stefan hated this idea. Another reason his monster was trying to dig its way to surface.

But, Elena was a woman of action, concentrating on the task presented her, despite her own reservations. Stefan loved and hated that about her. It was a quality that always seemed to get her into trouble.

"Do you think they've made it outside?" she asked, softly.

Stefan wanted to smile down at her, return the comfort she'd given him, but he stared across the display room, at the side doors to the parlor, where Sam was standing, listening for trouble outside. The two men shared a glance. Stefan already knew the answer, but he let Sam reply for him.

"We would have heard it if they'd run into serious trouble. Dean would have made sure we knew…" He tightened his grip on the re-loaded rifle in his hands. "They'll be ready to make their move soon."

Stefan nodded and wrapped his arms around Elena, pulling her into a final hug. "You don't have to do this," he said, not for the first time, into her hair. "We can come up with another plan. Destroy every one of these things on our own. You don't have to do a thing, Elena."

She reached up, cupping his cheek so that he was forced to meet her eye. "You heard what Sam and Dean said… Killing the zombies isn't going to stop what's causing this, and those two seem to know what they're talking about. If that _thing_ doesn't want us to leave, then it'll just send more to take their place." She took a steadying breath and put on a brave smile. "I can do this, Stefan. It's a good plan. And, if something goes wrong, I know you'll be there for me."

He frowned. "The Baron can stop me in my tracks. Damon, too. This demon's powerful."

"We won't let anything happen to her."

The declaration came from the other side of the room, where Sam was standing. Where the _hunter _was standing… Stefan had noticed, almost as soon as the violence had broken out, how this other pair of brothers moved, how they took the sudden appearance of the walking undead in stride. Like it was another day on the job. And, Stefan knew these two weren't stupid. He had no doubt that they were already aware there was something off about Damon and himself, even if they hadn't worked out _what_ they were quite yet.

But, the hunters also seemed aware that Elena wasn't like her companions. That she was human. Or else, their plan for the demon wouldn't work.

"I know you will," Stefan said, but he edged the words with a warning, too. _If this falls apart, I'm blaming you two. You'll meet my monster._

Even Stefan barely heard the shift in attention outside, as if the zombies had found something else more interesting than a pair of closed doors, but Sam stood a bit straighter, preparing himself. It was as if the young man had mentally timed out how long it would take Dean and Damon to get into position. He stepped away from the parlor doors, lining himself closer to the couple and facing the foyer entry.

"It's time," the hunter announced. "You ready?"

Stefan listened closely. _There was the signal_. Past the roar of the crowd of corpses, he heard his brother's voice. Cocky, arrogant, and teasing the dead. Sam was right. It was time.

Elena stepped between the two men, battle club raised. "I am," she announced, even though her voice shook. "Open the doors."

* * *

Ten seconds. _Ten_.

"Shit," he whispered.

It was a good idea, in theory. Really, it was. But Damon was right. His plan was going to fail. Epically. But, if they were lucky enough, it would give Sam, Stefan, and Elena the time they needed to pull off the next part.

Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth, not wanting to take that stench of decay in through his nostrils, and let his fingers skim across the fat hose of the flamethrower. The canvas straps across his stomach and shoulders bit into him, rubbing his skin raw, but he could barely feel it. Adrenaline had taken over. He could probably burn off his pinky finger and not notice at this point. Zombies just had that kind of effect on people.

Before he could think about it further, talk himself out of the move, his eyes caught sight of Damon in the shadows. The man had dropped down, almost silently, off the side of the second-level porch and moved toward the shrubbery. Now, he was raising his arm. The sign that he was about do his job.

Dean gave him a curt nod. No light, a hundred yards off, and Dean was still damn sure Damon caught the gesture, because the cocky asshole gave him the bird in exchange. There was something definitely off about the guy. Too fast, too good at killing… Dean bit his lip, pushing the theory back down, despite the flashing red warning lights going off behind his eyelids. They, weird guy included, had a shitload of zombies to deal with at the moment. Better to use whatever the hell Damon was to his advantage then get everyone killed trying to half-ass two hunts at once.

_Even though convincing myself he's not human would make dealing with the guilt of sending a civilian out to herd a zombie horde a little easier…_ Dean cut that thought off, not for the first time, and rolled his weighted shoulders in preparation for movement. Message received, Dean took a step away from the wall, weapon ready. It required two hands behind the nozzle. One for the firing safety and the firing trigger, the other for the ignition safety and the ignition trigger. And, once he committed to the act… He had only ten seconds. The river of fire would last ten seconds. More would be stretching it. Twenty would be a miracle.

That's _if_ it worked at all. _If_ it didn't blow up in his face and send him back to Heaven. _Who keeps a fully loaded antique flamethrower anyway? Apparently the same jackwad who throws parties for demons._

"Everyone slow and stupid, this way! Dinner is served!"

The shout stirred Dean from his musings. Damon was in the driveway now—_too friggin' fast_—and waving his arms lazily. The zombies froze. It was almost comical, how the crowd turned its attention away from the manor, as if it were one body. No, these corpses weren't geniuses. They staggered down the steps with new fervor, as if seeing Damon translated into "_our food escaped_." That or zombie logic dictated one brain in the hand was tastier than two in the bush.

_Whateverthehell—shit's working_. Dean chewed his bottom lip._ Keep going you sons of bitches… Come on, go eat the dumbass…_

Dean held his ground, waiting for the moment. His eyes darted from the porch to the man. Only, they didn't. Because the guy was already around the bend in the drive. The zombies shuffled after, even though they couldn't see their prey anymore.

All of them didn't follow, he knew. He'd never expected all of them to shuffle out of the house, but this dead crowd was just big enough to make a dent in their numbers.

A scream echoed from inside, and a shockwave ran up Dean's spine, strong enough to force him to move. It was feminine, the sound. Distinctly so.

_The girl… _

Dean moved into action but didn't make for the house's entrance. Part of the plan was not responding to screams. Fire first; help second.

It felt like it only took two big steps to reach the center of the porch, right above the stone steps leading up from the walkway. "Hey!"

Again the dead paused. _Christ, cadavers have the attention span of goldfish_. Dean thought it was funny, and gave the crowd his best grin.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked, more for his own sake.

The closest zombie on the yard was only five feet away. Its skull practically melted away when the stream of fire arched over its head.

…9…

The fuelstream was longer than he'd imagined. Dean swayed with the weight of the tank, sweeping the wide, open garden and catching the rose bush aflame.

…8…

They didn't feel it, the dead. Didn't seem to notice the danger.

…7…

Then they danced, and sung along to a song, their cries not pitched enough to be caused by pain.

…6…

The music was in Dean's head. Metallica. Calming him. Maybe. He couldn't tell if it was working. His heart was on his tongue.

…5…

Dean didn't like fire. It had taken everything from him. And, yet, it was a savior, the flames. It saved people from themselves. Saved them from becoming monsters. So, it couldn't be entirely bad. Couldn't be. Even though the heat of it made him want to vomit.

…4…

Salt and burns always left him hungry. Jesus, he was never going to admit that the smell—

…3…

The flames ate the scent of dead. Gone. There was only fuel and scorched air burning the hair out of his nostrils.

…2…

Dean blinked. The fire was gone. When had the fire run out? _Shit._

He swallowed a heated breath as if it were water, and then went to work removing the weapon, careful not to touch the nozzle as he reached up with one hand, trying to unfasten the metal clip over his stomach. The shoulder strap came next. This wasn't a job for one person, and the tank, even empty, was heavy. It swung, and his pants singed. The strip of skin on his thigh tightened with a fresh burn.

Dean cursed and tossed the flamethrower down. He'd moved his gun to the front of his belt. It felt comfortable in his hand. He swiveled on one boot and fired. The bullet caught the zombie who'd silently slipped past the foyer doors behind him right between the eyes.

It fell. Wasn't enough to take it down permanently, though. Dean didn't care at the moment.

He ignored the clawing fingers of the corpse and stepped around the twitching arm, eyes focused on the brightly lit room. The foyer opened straight through the manor, and his gaze found what it had been looking for: the main doors to the display room. They were open. And, the dead were inside.

Dean raised his weapon. "I love it when a plan comes together."

* * *

The zombies had overtaken them so quickly that Elena hadn't been able to hold back the scream building in her throat. It erupted out of her at the first touch of slimy, decaying hands against her wrist, yanking her club away and leaving a trail of sloughed-off skin in its wake. For a split second, Elena had panicked, her mind not wrapping around the fact that Stefan and Sam were no longer nearby, that they were slowly retreating towards the staircase.

_"Just don't let them bite you—we don't know what type of revenants they are…" _

Elena could hear Sam's words echoing in her ears, and she pulled her arm out of reach just as a jaw filled with broken teeth snapped open air. God. _God,_ what _the hell _had she gotten herself into? There were _types_. There were _types?_ Her mind sloshed that warning around like it was mouthwash that couldn't be spit out any time soon.

She collapsed to the bloody floor when one of the things tugged at the long skirt of her dress, ripping a higher slit into the gown. Her hand had moved to her thigh, as if to protect the weapon she'd tied there; the touch of the metal on her fingertips suddenly brought her back to earth, reminding her of her job.

The panic was quickly buried by purpose. If she didn't do this now, then Stefan would swoop down in seconds and rescue her. That was _not _what needed to happen.

Just as the crowd loomed over her, just as their snarled faces drew in close, Elena collected herself. "I want to make a deal!" she shouted.

Their moans still echoed over the rounded walls of the display room, but the zombies closest to her, the ones ready to tear into her flesh, stilled, their glazed eyes rolling in their heads as if they were hearing something but couldn't find the source. As one beast, they stepped back, just far enough to form a tight circle around her. Elena pushed herself up off the floor, ignoring the way the fabric of her dress clung to the dark, sticky mess beneath.

She raised her head, more confident, and repeated the words. "I want to make a deal."

Wood groaned to her left, and she turned just in time to see the shelves they'd propped against the double doors to the dining area slide away of their own accord. Her eyes widened, but she took the hint, stepping closer. The locked doors creaked open, welcoming her, and the zombies parted, leaving her a path through the gore.

It was now or never.

* * *

Charred black in spots, the yard looked like a post-Apocalyptic wasteland. Bodies, some of them still groaning in hunger, were scattered about, plumes of smoke billowing up from a few, others still in engulfed in flames. One tree had caught light as well. Damon stepped on a smoldering leg, feeling it twitch beneath his shoe as the flesh peeled off.

"Aren't we the firebug, Dean?" He cocked a brow, somewhat impressed with the display of carnage. "Not bad for a human and a half century old flamethrower."

Without a second thought, he ran at supernatural speed, over the zombie remains and up the littered steps to the front door, his blurred figure coming to a sudden stop at the entrance. He peaked inside and found more bodies, as well as his new-found partner in crime.

Dean hadn't seen him arrive; the man was standing between the open doors leading into the display room, sending a bullet flying through a corpse's temple. Beyond him, at least twenty or more revenants remained, packed into the room, their attention divided between the man, who was currently blocking their way back into the foyer, and the staircase, where another hail of gunfire rang out from the second floor.

As if the move were no more than habit, Dean dodged a lurching revenant, quickly tucked the empty handgun in his pants at the small of his back, and swooped down, picking up a long, slender blade with a swollen, dangerous tip. Apparently the machete had been propped against the inside wall, just out of the way. No doubt one of their younger brothers had anticipated the limited ammo disappearing quickly and had left the weapon in easy reach. How thoughtful of them.

Damon snorted, announcing his presence a moment before he raised up the calvary sword in his hands and brought its curved blade back down on a zombie Dean had smacked out of the way with the handle of his new weapon.

Dean quickly put down another corpse before glimpsing over his shoulder, wide-eyed. For the moment, at least, the zombies seemed to be finding the staircase more interesting, the majority of them shuffling away from the pair of newcomers.

"How the hell did you get back up here so quickly?" Dean snapped.

Damon rolled his eyes. _Really? Something is trying to eat your flesh off and you're coherent enough to notice the lack of a time lapse? _Damon knew what this meant, of course. It meant that, at some point, after the _party_, he was going to have to "take care of" the man and his brother—because, it was fairly obvious that monster hunting and weapons were two of their shared passions. Which wasn't good news for Damon. Once the zombie distraction was no longer around to keep them occupied, they'd shift their attention elsewhere…

_A pity, really_, he thought. He was actually starting to like Dean-o's style. Too bad he'd have to kill him horribly. But _c'est la vie_.

"Nice machete," he said, changing the subject.

Dean kicked out, knocking a dead guy wearing a long-tailed suit jacket in the gut. His boot sunk in and came away covered in goo. "It's called a _bolo_, actually," he replied, taking the topic in stride. He sucked in a breath, grunting as an old woman in a formal dress threw herself at his neck. "It was used in…" He shoved his elbow into her eye, bursting it like a grape, and swung the blade in a downward arch, chopping through the top of her head. "…the Philippine-American War…" He pulled the angular tip free with a wet _pop_. "…'s also used as a farming tool."

Flicking the blood of his own sword, Damon smirked. "Yes. It's a machete. That's what I said." Through the crowd, he could see a glimpse of Stefan's legs on the staircase. "Say, it looks like you've got a handle on this. I'm going to go check on our younger siblings. Keep up the _swell_ work."

"Wait—" Dean did a double take, watching him disappear into the horde. "_Shit_—you dick!"

Damon heard Dean utter another line, thick with curses, but ignored the man, swiftly making his way through the steadily dwindling crowd. He lost his suit jacket at some point but barely noticed, his focus on reaching the staircase. Sam drew up his rifle when he spotted him and let him pass before taking up the defensive position once again. As far as Damon could tell, the other doorways were holding; between Stefan and Sam at the stairs and Dean at the foyer, the remaining undead were trapped in the display room. Only, the zombies were too stupid to realize they'd been caught, their attention still on trying to nibble their captors.

"How did it go outside?" Stefan asked, throwing his arm out to push a body back down the steps using the head of an old, pitted hand axe. "Did it work?"

His voice was strained and Damon knew why; his brother didn't give a crap about what had happened outside. His worry was reserved for the one person he couldn't currently see past the crowd.

"I owe Dean fifty bucks," Damon replied, frowning in thought. "Note to self: I shouldn't bet against German engineering. Or pyromaniacs."

"According to plan, then?"

He shrugged, glimpsing the back of Sam's head—even from this angle, he could see that the young man's body had lost some its rigidness, as if hearing mention of Dean had taken some of the burden off of his back. Those two brothers were certainly the caring type… Damon couldn't help but feel a touch of bitterness at that observation.

"Dead things are more dead, so, yes, it went according to plan," he replied. He fully planned on elaborating, but a new voice interrupted him.

"My…my _family_…"

Henry Belle pushed himself against Stefan, trying to get past him. The old man appeared to be the only guest who had decided to forgo the designated hiding places in the upstairs bedrooms. He swayed on his feet, a lost look on his face; senility at its best. But the tragically confused expression in his eyes was quickly replaced with anger when he stared past the men. "You _bastards_—you've killed them all… I won't get what's mine." His words trailed off into a mad utterance. "The Baron won't give me what's mine… My _legacy_… My—"

Damon shoved his brother out of his way and snatched the old man up by the neck of his colorful tunic, drawing him in close. A dangerously cheerful grin curled his lips. It became more of a snarl when he opened them to speak. "Hi, there, Henry. I've been wanting to ask you a question all evening, and, well, I just haven't found the time. Let's say we go ahead and get this part over with."

"Damon…"

He ignored Stefan's call, tightening his grip on Belle. "There was a girl who came to stay here a very long time ago… You know, back when people still gave a damn about your precious family. Her name was Katherine Pierce, and she would have looked just like the girl who was here with us tonight."

"Of course this is about Katherine…" Stefan's fingers curling into his sleeve, trying to pull him further up the steps and failing. Damon jerked free, so Stefan raised his hands in surrender. "Damon, don't you think this is the wrong time for an interrogation?"

Damon dropped the fake smile from his face, glaring at his brother. "Yes, it's about Katherine. Or did I actually manage to convince you that we were taking a vacation like one big, happy family. She was _here_, Stefan. She stayed here, and this old man was her host—" His voice broke when he caught sight of Belle struggling to free himself from the vampire's steel grip. Damon sighed. The confusion on Belle's face was unmistakable. "You don't remember her, do you? Katherine erased your memory. One more step in assuring that no one found her." He stopped the true disappointment from showing on his face, giving the old man a playful pout instead. "Damn. That's unfortunate."

"Damon, let him go!" Stefan snapped. "You just admitted he doesn't know anything, and we have other things we need to be worrying about right now."

"You're right. He's absolutely useless," Damon agreed. His lips pulled back in a fresh sneer, and he called over his shoulder, "Hey, Sam, you might want to move out of the way."

With barely a flick of his wrist, Damon sent the old man sailing down the steps. Belle let out a terrified howl before he hit the floor of the display room. He barely managed to pull himself up onto his knees before the remaining undead overtook him, sending up a spray of red before the screams disappeared, along with any sight of Henry Belle.

Sam let out a deep breath from his position, hugging the side of the wall, before his sight trailed back up to Damon and Stefan. "What the hell, man?"

Damon locked eyes with the man, his gaze intense. "Henry tripped," he said, as if it were law.

"Tripped?" Sam blinked, losing the connection. If anything, he looked more pissed. "You seriously expect me to believe he tripped?"

Damon frowned, sharing a look with his brother. "Are they putting vervain in the water these days?"

Sam's nostrils flared in anger, and he pushed himself up off the wall, ignoring the undead crowd down below. "You _killed_ him."

"No, actually, _they_ killed him. _I_ pushed him. He wanted to be with his family so badly, after all…What? Like neither of you were thinking it."

Stefan jumped between the two before Sam had a chance to raise his spent rifle like a club. "It's done, already," he snapped. "The two of you can deal with this at a later time—we need to finish up here so we can get to Elena. Or am I the only one who remembers that she's currently in danger?"

Sam lost his fight, backing down immediately. "We'll get to her, Stefan."

Damon huffed, still aggravated that his mind control hadn't quite worked the way he'd hoped.

"Yes, well, you should hope the rest of your brother's plan works out, or a quick shove down the stairs will be the least of your problems, _Sam_. If anything happens to one precious little hair on dear Elena's head, Stefan will be a cranky boy. And, you wouldn't like Stefan when he's cranky…" When he realized two sets of eyes were glaring at him, he shrugged off his own statement, gesturing out toward the small horde currently occupied with the meal he'd provided. "That's your cue. Lead on, fearless zombie slayer."

* * *

The doors to the display room had slammed shut as soon as she'd passed through them, but Elena could hear the fighting continue, at first with gunshots and now with wet, blunt sounds and absent moans. Her body trembled without permission as she considered what must be happening out there; her imagination, she knew, didn't give the image justice.

While sitting at the end of a long, elegant dining table, all but undisturbed by the chaos that had overtaken the rest of the manor, the minutes seemed to pass slowly. Elena rested her hands on her lap, practicing deep breaths. Focusing on what she was about to do: try to make a deal with a demon.

The thought made her want to vomit. This was what her life had turned into now, excusing one evil so long as the end justified the means. Was this, this requirement to forgo what's right to keep what she cared for whole, just the inevitable conclusion now that she had vampires and witches and the supernatural in her life? Elena couldn't consider that possibility, not right now.

Between the space of a blink, he appeared at the other end of the table, lounging back as if he were settling in for a meal. Elena jerked to attention, her shoulder blades hitting the chair painfully, but if the Baron noticed, he didn't say a word.

"My, my, the Crescent City is busy tonight… So much fun to be had, especially here at Belle Manor." He gave a self-satisfied sigh. Then he let his gaze fall fully on Elena. His eyes flashed to crimson. "Hey, baby. Where y'at?" he said with a touch of deep, _Yat_ dialect. The confusion across her face amused him, and he chuckled. "You enjoyin' this fine Ball, or what?"

Elena swallowed hard.

He smiled back at her, breaking the tease with a wink. "Now, where'd the two of us leave off our conversation? If I recall, last we spoke, I believe you might have called me a few hurtful names. Seems you've had a change of heart—is that right, Elena?"

Elena straightened. "I don't want to die."

The Baron cocked his head. "That'll do it for most folks." He smirked. "I can help with the the not-dying, 'course, but I'll need something from you in return."

Elena winced and went back to studying the top of the table. "I..." Her voice was low. "I know." She shook her head. "You said I had power, my bloodline…What did you mean by that?"

The demon pulled himself to his feet, casually stepping around the table. "Oh, boo, power is as power does. You've got it, deep down. In your blood. But, if you don't know how to use it, doesn't do you much good, now does it?" He chuckled again. "The Baron knows how to use it, though. Take real good care of it for you. All you've got to do is offer it up."

Elena stood, feeling breathless, and eased herself around the opposite side of the table, as if to get further away from him. "Is…Are you talking about my soul?"

"I think you already know the answer to that question." The Baron disappeared, then, just as quickly, reappeared beside her, grabbing her above her elbow to keep her in place. "Or didn't the hunters tell you what I do?"

Elena's eyes widened. She froze in place, trying to cover up her sudden nervousness. "If I give you my soul, I can get out of here alive? With my friends?"

He _tsk_ed, his grip tightening. The demon leaned in close, his thick lips pushing a hot, sulfurous breath against her ear. "Elena, we both know you're not sharing a kiss with me tonight. What were you planning to do? Play coy one step at a time until you led me to that Devil's Trap beneath the rug?"

Elena felt her heart stop, and when it started again, it was at a full gallop against her sternum. She tried to pull away, but he pushed her against the side of the table, holding her in place.

"Did you think I didn't notice Sam-boy sneaking about the house while the big brothers were trying to distract my babies?" La Croix asked. He settled against her, raising his cane to rest behind her neck. "Oh, the Baron don't miss much, sweet. But, I'm not mad. You had to try. But, you failed, and now you should just admit what it is you need from me…" He pressed his lips against the corner of her mouth, ignoring the way she jerked her head to the side. "Make me an offer, Elena."

The doors to the dining hall burst open with an explosion of splinters, silencing whatever reply was on the tip of her tongue. Dean charged in, dragging a zombie with him. He pulled the machete out of the corpse, before turning his wrathful glare on the demon holding Elena down.

"Miss me, jackass?" he hissed. He raised his chin in preparation, words sliding out of him as quick and sharp as a blade through flesh. "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,_ _omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii…"_

The demon released Elena's arm and threw up his hand. Dean flew back, slamming against a China cabinet. Ceramic shards rained down over him, and the Latin was cut off as he gasped to catch his breath.

The Baron snarled at the man. "I'm in the middle of a transaction, boy. If you honestly think an exorcism is going to stop me, you're dumber than you look."

Dean's grimace curled into a grin. "Nah," he breathed, "didn't think it would. Wasn't part of the plan. And my plan is awesome."

Elena's hand moved of its own accord, jerking Sam's knife free from the makeshift sheath against her thigh and slamming it upward with a quick thrust. It slid in below the Baron's ribcage, angled up. Over the sound of her own thundering pulse, Elena couldn't hear whatever the demon was trying to tell her. He sputtered, his dark skin lighting with bursts of red energy that seemed to rattle his whole body and showed the haunting shape of the skull beneath his flesh.

A second later, he was on the ground, the body he'd been inside still and stone cold.

Elena felt arms wrap around her, holding her tight, and she breathed in Stefan's scent. When he and the others had barged into the room, she wasn't sure; what she did know was that his presence meant this night was at an end.

She felt him shudder against her and realized that he was laughing, silently. "So, did you enjoy your vacation from the crazy?"

Smiling against his shoulder, she shook her head. "Let's just go home."

* * *

The winter dawn lit the horizon with gray, pushing back the night. Dean stepped out of the manor, watching the trio in front of him quickly make their way through the maze of burned and decapitated corpses in the garden without giving a single goodbye to the hunters. His brow wrinkled in thought, but Sam elbowed him in the side, drawing his attention from the retreating group.

"Are you seriously keeping that?"

Dean stared down at his hand. In their retreat, he'd absentmindedly picked up his mask, still miraculously in one piece, if not exactly where he'd left it. He frowned at it before tossing it back over his shoulder. "Hell no."

The manor behind them was surprisingly quiet, the remaining, living guests still huddled safely upstairs. He had briefly considered giving the lot of them the all clear, but, jeeze, clean-up was going to be impossible as it was, and he figured they'd notice when their cell phones started working…Which also meant they had little to no time to hit the road before the police were alerted. Dean would bet good money the Feds would be called in to figure this mess out.

The sound of tires throwing gravel brought him out of those lingering concerns, and he looked up to see Elena, Stefan, and Damon driving off. He could make out their shadowed figures through the rear window. One of them was waving back… Nope, nevermind. One of them was shooting the hunters the bird.

"Dick." Dean snorted.

Sam shook his head. "You're memorizing their plate numbers, aren't you?"

"Yup. Virginia is for lovers." He raised a brow. "There was definitely something up with those guys. You figure out what they were?"

"I was kind of busy at the time. You know, with zombies." Sam frowned, then took off down the steps, Dean falling in behind him. "We're not just going to let them go, are we?"

Even from behind, Dean knew what expression was on his brother's face because he was pretty sure it was on his own, too. He paused, chewing his bottom lip. After a second, he shrugged, catching up._ Ah, Hell_. "I figure they'll keep until after the Apocalypse. We live through this whole end-of-the-world thing, then we can hunt their asses down."

Sam turned, trying and failing to bite back his smile. "Sounds like a plan."

"Want to grab some grub on the way out?"

Sam shook his head. "My appetite has pretty much left the building. Hey, Dean—what about the bokor who sent us here?"

Dean smirked, propping himself against the side of their stolen Buick. "Apparently the same guy was the reason our new _buddies_ were here, too. Damon said he'd have a _chat _with him before he left town. Something tells me he's not going to be partnering up with any demons any time soon."

With one hand on his door handle, Sam paused. "Oh. _Uh_, Dean, did I tell you what happened to Mr. Belle?"

* * *

**End Notes:**

_Title_ – Yes. It is based on the AC/DC song "Hell's Bells." Those lyrics just fit too well, right?

_Vodou (the Voodoo religion) Knowledge_ – Mine is limited. In much the tradition of SPN episodes, I tossed mythos into a bag and pulled out what sounded like fun. Loa, Baron La Croix, Bokors—these are all real things. I apologize in advance to any one of the Manimyzame or lwa/loa followers who might take my Baron offensively, but he's not "the" Baron, just a no-good demon taking on his persona. Basically, take what I said above and apply it to my knowledge of weaponry, too—sure, I've fired guns in my life, but weaponry is not my hobby of choice. And, yes, the flamethrower was requested by the girl who original gave me this prompt, and yes, I had to seek the advice of a guy in the military when it came to writing about one. :)

_I hope you enjoyed the story. Feel free to leave a comment or a suggestion. I might write a sequel or a story from this universe in the future, but it'll be a while-I've got way too many WIP stories going for me to start another right now, but this definitely inspired me to try out TVD/SPN crossovers_.._.and maybe next time I'll even get to write for my favorite TVD characters, Caroline or Alaric._


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